


Everything In This World Is Dull Except You

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Beads, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, M/M, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-08
Updated: 2011-06-08
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:39:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John had a moment to hope that Sherlock would pick something low-key, like the blindfold, or even the fur-lined handcuffs would be -- nope, he was going for the...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything In This World Is Dull Except You

John had more chores to take care of these days.

There was more laundry, to start with. John had to make sure there were always clean sheets on the bed, and fresh towels nearby. He scrubbed the shower and tub regularly, in case they decided to take activities in there. He bought the lube. He washed their toys. He kept his fingernails carefully trimmed and filed, with no hangnails, ever. He kept bottles of water at the bedside for when Sherlock got thirsty afterward.

But he didn’t mind. It was important to him, to do everything to ensure that, when the time came, he could just watch Sherlock’s pleasure, then take his own, without distractions or inconveniences.

 

*****

 

With no cases, no news, no texts, Sherlock had been restless that morning, which was often a predictor of amorous advances in the evening. If he got lost in meditative thought, or research, John couldn’t reach him, but when Sherlock got bored, he would readily turn to John to escape the tedium of existence. It was flattering, in its own way: _Everything in this world is dull except you_. So before he left for the surgery, John took a stack of towels upstairs and tidied the bedroom and bathroom.

Around lunchtime, he got a text:

 **Lonely. SH**

That clinched it. John made a mental note to grab a sandwich and an apple from the cafeteria before leaving work; it was annoying to come home hungry and ready for dinner, only to find himself instead having to satiate Sherlock on an empty stomach.

Sure enough, that evening he barely made it into the sitting room before he was bombarded by a flurry of Sherlock. “Where have you been? Didn’t you get my text? I’ve been so bored and lonely all day. Let’s go upstairs.”

“It’s only six, and you’re ready for bed?”

“I’m ready for the bed, the sofa, the shower, the kitchen table, wherever you’ll have me.”

“The bed will do.”

 

*****

  
That the evening traffic noise was muffled, in John’s room, made it feel even quieter than if they had actual perfect silence. The two of them, alone, not speaking, in this room, felt far more intimate when there was a distant hum outside. It reminded them that the outside world was going on, but could not touch them here, if they didn’t want it to.

Sherlock was headed straight for the bed, but John stopped him, pulled him close. He’d been away all day; he wanted to be properly re-introduced.

Standing this close was a reminder of their disparate heights. John put his nose against Sherlock’s jugular notch, then pulled the collar of his t-shirt away from his neck with two fingers, so he could get a whiff of Sherlock’s musk. Lounging about all day, no deodorant. He hummed against Sherlock’s collarbone and slipped two fingers of his other hand under the hem of Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock started to lift his arms, to help John get the shirt off, but John didn’t pull it all the way up. Instead, he used those fingers to gently caress the little valley next to Sherlock’s hipbone, then dipped lower, just into the waistband of his pyjamas.

“I missed you too, you know,” John whispered. This was going to be such a nice way to unwind and forget about the tensions of the surgery. He rubbed up and down Sherlock’s belly and chest with the flat of both hands, sliding over the soft cotton once, then twice; on the third go-round, he hooked his thumbs and pushed the hem of Sherlock’s t-shirt up to his armpits, got a good look at the smooth pale skin and sparse fuzz...then let the fabric fall once more.

Sherlock’s hands stroked John’s arms, urging him in one direction or other but never tugging any fabric. As if to say, _Hurry up and do all the work_.

“Alright, I get the message,” John sighed at Sherlock’s perfunctory touches. He gave up on his slow tease, grabbed each item of Sherlock’s clothing with both hands, and pulled everything off, until Sherlock stood before him naked. John went for his own shirt next, and as he worked the buttons, a giddy Sherlock leapt the two and a half feet to the chest of drawers and slid the top drawer open. The drawer where they kept their toys. John had a moment to hope that Sherlock would pick something low-key, like the blindfold, or even the fur-lined handcuffs would be -- nope, he was going for the beads.

John couldn’t really call himself surprised; Sherlock was particularly fond of this item. A string of five teal-coloured silicone beads, the first one 15 millimetres wide, and each one bigger than the last, with a large ring at the end.

Sherlock sat on the bed, legs folded beneath him, and held the beads out to John, who didn’t take them right away.

“Do you understand,” said John, “that I just got home, and this is a little abrupt to be springing on me?”

“It’s not like this is something new.”

“No, but, I was thinking I’d like to take my time. Just enjoy you a little bit.” He trailed off. “Don’t know if you got that from what I was doing a minute ago...”

"But I’ve been thinking about this _all day_.” Every second that went by without John doing exactly what he wanted was obviously agonising for Sherlock.

“Well, I’ve been at work _all day_ , and I hardly had a chance to think about you. Oh, no, don’t give me that pout and try to make me feel guilty. I can’t be thinking about you and our toys and so on while I’m seeing patients.”

He kneeled on the bed facing Sherlock, gently taking the toy out of his hand and setting it aside. “I want to make love to you, not stuff you full of beads.”

Sherlock found this ridiculous. “Stuffing me full of beads _is_ making love to me.”

This idea made John’s heart skip a beat, made his balls ache. Perhaps, unlike himself, Sherlock didn’t distinguish between the exotic play and the sweet, lazy afternoons.

Then again, maybe Sherlock was just saying whatever he needed to say in order to get his own way. John never forgot what Sherlock, essentially, was. He had promised John that he would not lie or be manipulative when they were intimate, but he could very well have been lying and manipulative when he said that. Thus, their relationship, and any assumption John might make about it, was fraught with its own kind of danger.

John closed his eyes in defeat. He shrugged his shirt the rest of the way off and tossed it over to the chair. “Fine. If that’s what you want, we’ll do it,” he said, mumbling a couple of the words when he pulled his t-shirt off.

Stretching himself diagonally across the bed, Sherlock reached into the bedside table drawer to fetch the lube. He thought John silly for insisting on hiding it away; John had countered that people had a tendency to over-emphasise the significance of particular health products in one’s home, and if someone -- say, Mrs. Hudson -- were to come into the room and see a bottle of lube just lying about, they might think that was all Sherlock and John ever did in this room, constantly. Sherlock didn’t understand why that wasn’t a splendid concept.

“Get a towel as well, and put it under you,” John said as he unbuckled his belt. Sherlock laid the bottle on the bed, next to the beads John had tried to discard earlier, and spread a towel out to kneel on. John shoved his remaining clothes off unceremoniously; Sherlock did not have a monopoly on petulance. Sherlock ignored John’s frown and patted the mattress behind him, where he wanted John to sit. He folded himself forward before John, resting his head on one hand and using the other to reach behind him and grab one cheek to spread himself, which was silly because in that position he was already quite spread, his pink hole tight and dry.

John settled himself behind Sherlock, in full view of this wanton display, and took the bottle in hand. “Do you want fingers first?”

“Always. I always want your fingers in me.”

John had kind of wished Sherlock had said “No,” so he could have put fingers in him anyway and tormented him with lots of teasing. He squeezed the cold lube onto his fingers, rubbed it with his thumb to warm it up.

Sherlock took two fingers without complaint. “I can’t really see what’s going on back there,” he said conversationally, “so I just have to imagine what it looks like, you working your fingers in and out of me.”

Sherlock was still chattering, so obviously just two fingers wasn’t doing the trick. John was just about to add a third, when Sherlock said curtly, “The beads now.” So he eased his fingers out. Plenty of lube was left behind and Sherlock’s hole gave a wet wink at the sudden emptiness.

John put a soothing hand on the small of Sherlock’s back while the other reached for the beads. The small of one’s back was not a part of one’s body that came to mind when thinking of intimate touches -- more obvious were genitals, face, neck, feet -- but then when someone touched the small of one’s back, one would think, “ _Oh_.”

Though it was probably unnecessary, John gave the first, smallest bead a coating of lube. Supporting the rest of the strand with his right hand, he used the left to push the bead in. It was hardly an effort, and Sherlock made a little pleased noise.

That hard ring of muscle swallowed the second bead with the same ease. It continued to clench; it wanted the third one, but couldn’t get it, instead just squeezing around the length of silicone between the two.

John had enough lube on his fingers to spread all over the third bead without going back to the bottle. It was already snug against Sherlock’s hole, so he just nudged it with one finger, coaxing it inside.

“This one’s my favourite,” Sherlock murmured. As the third one went in, the second one had to move to make room for it, and hit the first one, striking Sherlock’s prostate in turn. He began to shiver and shift.

The fourth one was a little more difficult. It was wider, and until he adjusted, Sherlock felt like he was running out of room. His body didn’t know whether to take it in or push it out, and so just spasmed around it. John pushed at the bead a little, until it was slightly more than halfway in, but then it was squeezed back out. Now with two fingers and more insistence, he pushed again, letting it linger a moment when Sherlock was stretched the widest. He watched the lube gathering between the bead and Sherlock’s struggling entrance, dribbling down his perineum. With one fingertip he gathered up the trickle of lube and, when the path was retraced to the bead, pushed it in once and for all.

John wasn’t satisfied with how the fourth one had gone, so he gently pulled it out to begin again. “Come on, Sherlock, I thought you were good at taking these. Now take it like you want it or you won’t get the last one.”

The bead was flush with Sherlock’s body, not quite all the way back out, and before making this second attempt John used his first two fingers to gently circle where the bead met the stretched, slick muscle. When he pushed on it this time Sherlock bore down and closed around it as easily as he had the first.

“Last one,” John said. He used thumb and forefinger of both hands to lube the largest bead up while Sherlock wriggled as though he were trying to free up some space for it. His swaying, however, only had the effect of rolling the beads around all the most sensitive parts of his insides and eliciting a long string of whimpers and curses.

Sherlock, that bastard. John hadn’t even wanted to do this twenty minutes ago. Now, his own enthusiasm was about to overtake Sherlock’s.

“Sherlock, this one’s so big. Are you sure you want to try taking it?” John was joking, of course, about giving him any say in the matter at this point. He didn’t wait for Sherlock’s clenching arse to decide what it wanted to do. The bead was going in, period. For his part, Sherlock was non-verbal at this point, so his contribution was limited, mainly squirming.

“Oh, how I’ve spoiled you,” John lamented. “If I keep giving you all these beads whenever you want them, I won’t be enough for you anymore.”

Beneath him Sherlock was quaking. “No, that’s not true. It makes me want you more.”

“That’s sweet of you to say.” John tilted forward and draped himself over Sherlock’s back. He whispered, “Do you want a little belly rub now?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Yes, of course you do. We’ll get those things knocking about inside you good and proper.”

It wasn’t an exact science, and didn’t always produce a perfect result, but this time John was able to palpate Sherlock’s abdomen just right, and coax a bead or two to roll over his sweet spot. Dropping down and digging one shoulder into the mattress, Sherlock began to whinge and clutch at his scalp; John knew this meant things were getting too intense for him, even if he was too proud to admit it and beg for relief.

“Are you ready to come now?” John asked.

Sherlock made a noise that probably corresponded to “Yes.”

John repositioned himself behind Sherlock, sitting on his heels. He hooked his middle finger around the ring, and let his index finger draw one last teasing circle around Sherlock’s anus, where the last bead was barely visible. “Here we go, then. Out comes the first one.”

As soon as he felt John tugging, Sherlock began frantically jerking himself. John could tell he’d had a little too much this time, was already exhausted inside and out. As each of three beads re-emerged, Sherlock’s cries became louder and more guttural, until, when the third came free, he roared with relief and fucked his fist, ejaculating powerfully all over himself and the towel. John had to fight to pull the next to last bead; Sherlock’s twitching hole didn’t want to give it up. John watched the muscle as it squeezed, revealing the sphere and then concealing it again before it could breach. Finally, as Sherlock settled down and quieted, the bead slid free easily, and after it the last one.

The pity he felt for Sherlock’s sore insides evaporated at the sight of his wet, still-grasping hole. He knew exactly what he wanted to put in it next.

“It’s my turn now, alright?” he said, and Sherlock managed to nod assent, though he mostly just shuddered.

As he aimed his cock, John asked Sherlock’s forgiveness: “I’m sorry I’m not tending to you like I usually do, but I just have to fuck you right now. I can’t -- oh God, you’re so ready.”

John pushed his cock right into the soft, wet hole, and the sight of it, the slippery ease of it, was almost better than Sherlock’s usual tightness.

“That’s it,” he groaned, “swallow it up, like you did all those beads.”

Sherlock made several valiant efforts to clasp John’s cock with his arse, but John hardly needed it. He watched himself slide smoothly in and out, pulling back to let the ridge of his cock peek out so he could enjoy once more the sight of the whole thing disappearing back into Sherlock, tip to root. This he did twice or thrice more, then he decided what he really wanted to do was just grab Sherlock’s arse and pound it; he would see just how badly Sherlock wanted to be stuffed full. His own rude thoughts, more than the actual sensations Sherlock provided him, pushed him to orgasm with almost no tension or build-up.

John didn’t know why, every time he saw Sherlock’s raw, red, used hole, he just wanted to put something else in it. But he wasn’t a monster; he knew when Sherlock could take just a little more, and when he was well and truly fucked out. Right now, the latter was the case. John wrapped both arms around Sherlock’s belly and pulled the both of them down onto the mattress so they could lie spoon-fashion.

“We’ll get cleaned up in a minute,” John soothed. “Let’s just stay here for a while.” Sherlock was silent, his limbs still shivering. John rocked him gently and said, “I’m sorry, I used you too hard again.”

Sherlock turned his head until John could see his fluttering eyelashes over the crest of his cheekbone. “I loved it,” he said.


End file.
